


The Third Kiss

by LeilaKalomi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), First Kiss, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-Scene: The Ritz (Good Omens), Second Kiss, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), third kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24472096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilaKalomi/pseuds/LeilaKalomi
Summary: Aziraphale kisses Crowley after the Ritz, but it doesn't go the way he'd expected. Will he get a second chance? Or...oh, dear...a third?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 185
Collections: Promptposal





	The Third Kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [overwhelmingly_awesome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/overwhelmingly_awesome/gifts).



After, they feel light and happy, and it’s as if a great weight has been lifted from both their shoulders. Aziraphale feels as if he could float, as if he’s filled with the tiny bubbles of his favorite champagne. The memory of Crowley’s hand in his on the bus still lingers, and as he gesticulates more and more wildly across the table, he edges his hand closer, hoping.

Crowley looks at it, looks at him. Perhaps he thinks Aziraphale can’t tell through his glasses, but Aziraphale knows how to tell where Crowley is looking. He only wishes he could tell what Crowley was thinking, feeling. Crowley looks smug, satisfied, and maybe that’s because he’s put one over on Heaven and Hell. That alone would do the trick. Or maybe it’s because he saved the world. Or maybe it’s because Aziraphale has been unable to stop gazing at him adoringly for nearly twenty-four hours now.

Aziraphale has certainly made no effort to hide it. Not this time. Not now.

They finish their champagne, move on to other wines, and, just before the waiter comes to deliver the check, Crowley’s hand descends over Aziraphale’s. Just for a moment. A touch.

“ ’S nice, yeah?” Crowley says.

They’d been talking about beekeeping. Crowley said he did not think beekeeping sounded especially nice. And as for Aziraphale, well, it’s quite out of the question to imagine that Aziraphale would find beekeeping, the art of maintaining insects for husbandry and pollination and what not, at all suitable. So then Crowley isn’t talking about that at all. Aziraphale hesitates, and nods. His heart pounds and swoops. He can’t even look at Crowley as his spindly hand lifts up and away. When Aziraphale raises his eyes again, he sees the way Crowley looks, lip quirking up, eyes flickering away. That look of satisfaction again. No, he knows what he’s doing to Aziraphale, and he means to do it.

So on the street, on the way home, talking and laughing in the moonlight, Aziraphale doesn’t wait when a thrum of something magical seems to lift him up. Crowley feels it too, he knows. So why wait? A block from the bookshop, he stops.

“Aziraphale, what—?” Crowley had gone on a few steps, and now he’s turned back to face Aziraphale.

“Crowley, come here,” Aziraphale whispers. His voice has gone dark and heavy. He swallows, starting to tremble because perhaps this isn’t quite the thing, but it is, it _is_. Crowley steps closer, closer, so close. They’re nearly nose to nose. Aziraphale reaches for his hands, leans in (and oh, God, Crowley doesn’t move away!), their breaths mingle, their noses just bump, and they’re kissing, kissing, _kissing_ , Crowley’s lips soft as they move against his, one hand letting go of Aziraphale’s and pressing lightly into Aziraphale’s back instead.

It’s soft, quick. Aziraphale ends it, backing up, blinking, looking down. He’s rather pleased with himself, and he doesn’t mind Crowley seeing it. But Crowley has gone stiff.

“Angel,” he says, sounding choked. “I think we are both _thorough_ ly sauced. So I’m, ah, I’ll just. Take myself off then. Good night.”

“Crowley, I’m not—it’s—”

“Listen, I. I’ll see you around, all right? Ring you, you know?”

“Crowley—” Aziraphale tries, but the demon has rounded the corner already. “Good night!” Aziraphale calls.

* * *

He doesn’t sleep, because of course he doesn’t; he never does. But he doesn’t read either, doesn’t listen to music. Instead he stays up all night, staring drunkenly at the same sonnet, wringing his hands and fretting. When it’s morning, he thinks of ringing Crowley, but no: Crowley’d said _he_ ’d ring. Oh, why had Aziraphale ruined everything? Why couldn’t he have at least waited until they hadn’t just relieved the Ritz of six of their finest bottles of quite highly alcoholic wine?

His head aches. His mouth feels dry. He forces himself to make and drink a cup of tea, to go upstairs to his flat and examine his appearance, to tug at his waistcoat and bow-tie a few times, to go downstairs and open the shop. At the tingle of the bell, he forces himself to look up, to prepare himself to drive away customers. But it’s Crowley.

“Morning, angel,” he says, drinking something from one of those obnoxious coffee chains—Costa or something or other. He smiles at Aziraphale, just a wry little twitch of the lips. Aziraphale can’t see his eyes in the low light.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale says, cautiously. Crowley looks around, takes a large swig of coffee, and throws himself onto the sofa, legs flying everywhere.

“Oh, that’s new,” he says, pointing up at the stained glass Adam had added to the skylight: a very stylized angel with white wings, a halo, and a bow-tie.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale says, relief dawning. Is it possible Crowley simply doesn’t remember?

* * *

Indeed, Crowley does not mention it again. Aziraphale is grateful. Obviously, Crowley hadn’t liked it, hadn’t wanted it, and if he hasn’t forgotten, he’s being really very generous of spirit not to taunt Aziraphale about it, not to treat him differently. They pass their days as they’d always wanted to. Frequent visits to each other, trips to the theater, museums, even a short jaunt to Vienna to relive the time they’d both spent dealing with the Mozart problem.

Aziraphale has never been so happy. So when Crowley hesitates in front of a particularly garish Kandinsky, when Crowley, scratching the back of his neck, says, “So, uh, angel. I’ve been thinking of getting out of London. What would you say to, ah, coming along. Us getting a place together?” Aziraphale can only swallow to cut off his gasp of surprise, can only nod along until he remembers how to speak, can only say, “Oh, yes, dear fellow. A lovely idea,” as if it’s nothing at all out of the ordinary. Because what if he pressed for more details or acted too surprised and Crowley grew frustrated and left without him?

* * *

The house they choose is perfect. A charming, sprawling old estate manor with lots of room for books. They tear down a lot of the walls to make one large library for Aziraphale (though he keeps his bookshop in London). Some of the exterior walls have to go, as well, replaced by large panes of glass looking out over the cliff face for a solarium where Crowley can grow plants and sun himself. Aziraphale hadn’t recoiled when he’d seen Crowley lying there, stretched out motionless so his scales shone black and red. Instead, he’d come closer and rested a hand on Crowley’s head, and Crowley, idiot that he was, had nuzzled against him without thinking. The angel’s hand was soft, and his body was thick and warm. It would be so nice to twine around him, to rest against him, to hold and be held.

Crowley hates it when he thinks this way. So he hadn’t let himself do anything else, had just ducked his head back down and tried to sleep. Eventually Aziraphale had walked away. Just as he’d given up on Crowley when Crowley had gone off after the Ritz. After they’d kissed.

Crowley hasn’t forgotten it. The stars in Aziraphale’s eyes, the softness of his lips, the way he’d _tasted_. He thinks of it all the time. Whenever he starts to think maybe Aziraphale might try again, Crowley takes out the memory and looks at it to remind himself of how badly he’d failed,

It has been months. Neither of them has mentioned it. If Aziraphale wanted them to talk about it, surely he would have by now. Probably the angel was too sauced off his arse to even remember standing in the middle of the street looking at Crowley like that, tugging gently at his hand, letting him lean in and breathe the same air…

He’d be so embarrassed, which would hurt, so Crowley doesn’t remind him. And if sometimes he has his doubts about that, if sometimes he wonders if Aziraphale hadn’t in fact known _exactly_ what he was doing, well. It _has_ been months. He hasn’t brought it up, hasn’t tried again. Surely if he felt anything real to begin with, he’s changed his mind by now. Doesn’t matter. Crowley has never been happier, and he’s _not going to screw it up_.

* * *

They’ve started walking together in the mornings. Crowley catalogs the local plant life, and sometimes Aziraphale birdwatches (when Crowley hasn’t managed to scare off everything not rooted to the ground). Mostly, Aziraphale would point at things he liked and say, “Look, Crowley!” and Crowley would look and delight in the angel’s delight and try not to grab him and hug him or push him against the nearest tree trunk and kiss him senseless. Sometimes they’d swim, or because where the house opened onto the beach was secluded and shaded from view, they’d sometimes even let their wings out, fly a little.

Crowley likes flying with Aziraphale. Likes taking his hands and soaring with him (they don’t hold hands in general, but flying is different), likes looping around him. He likes swimming with Aziraphale, too, splashing him, holding on to each other’s arms in the waves until Aziraphale shrieks with unrestrained laughter and then blushes, even though it’s obvious he’s confident of Crowley’s indulgence. It’s bloody gorgeous and so much better now without everyone looking over their shoulders. It’s just that with all that gorgeousness and all that blushing and touching and lack of restraint, it’s really hard not to kiss Aziraphale. So one day, Crowley makes a mistake. A miscalculation.

He’d been holding on to the angel in the water, Aziraphale shrieking and wrenching free of him, pushing him over into a wave as Aziraphale fought his way out of the choppy, cold sea. Crowley was bowled over by the water, the adrenaline running through his corporation, and he swam to shore, would have made it there before Aziraphale, but he had another idea and reached out for him, knocking him off his feet so he landed on top of him, and now they’re lying there, laughing on the sand, Crowley still on top of Aziraphale, their skin against each other’s. Aziraphale is looking at him, laughing; his eyes are so fond and gentle and mirthful, and Crowley knows what his must look like, what Aziraphale must be able to see in his gaze.

So there’s no point in holding back. It’s just a few inches to close, and Aziraphale meets him halfway, lifting his chin up. Aziraphale’s lips are cold and wet with salt water. Crowley tries to go slow, he really does, but then Aziraphale’s mouth opens beneath his, and he can’t stop a ragged moan from escaping into it.

Aziraphale’s arms come up around him, warm and urgent, and then, just as quickly, withdraw.

And then there’s a hand on his chest, holding him back, and Aziraphale is turning, twisting away from beneath him.

“Oh, Crowley,” he’s saying, chiding, and it’s done. Just like that, it’s done, it’s over, Crowley’s scrambling to get up, to get off him. He turns his body away as if he doesn’t want Crowley to see how his eyes are wet with more than seawater. He picks up a towel, rubbing at his hair. He’s shivering.

“Aziraphale—?”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says. “It’s all right, isn’t it? Even though I…”

Even though he what? Didn’t want to? But he had, Crowley could tell. He’d wanted to. It was fine, and then it was over. Why was he holding back?

“Only, I’ll...I’ll go up to the house,” Aziraphale says. “It looks like it...might rain.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, stupidly. He doesn’t point out that of course it does, that it rains most of the time, that it hasn’t stopped them before on their morning jaunts.

Then Aziraphale says, “I’m sorry. I am sorry, dear boy,” and stalks away.

 _Good_ , Crowley thinks. _He’s not angry._ But instead of the thought making Crowley feel better, it makes him sink to his knees, wishing he could bury himself beneath the sand.

* * *

Aziraphale stops halfway up the cliff. From where he is, he can’t see the part of the beach where they’d been, can’t see the house either. He presses his hand to his lips, pushing hard to steady himself. They’d been having fun. It had been lovely. And then he’d thought he’d seen something in Crowley’s eyes that he couldn’t have. He _couldn’t_ have. Because Crowley doesn’t want him like that. It has been too much, perhaps. Aziraphale hanging around all the time, grabbing at Crowley’s hands, fluttering his eyelashes at him so shamelessly, so desperately. Crowley hadn’t objected. And then Crowley had done _that_. Or had he?

Aziraphale can’t quite think, can’t quite focus on anything except the lump in his throat, his sudden inability to breathe.

Had _he_ kissed _Crowley_ again? Or had _Crowley_ kissed _him_? Aziraphale definitely remembered leaning up and into the small distance between them. He definitely remembered that he’d been first to part his lips. But Crowley had leaned in first. Crowley had opened his mouth too. He wraps the towel over his shoulders, suddenly cold. He had never been one for swimming before coming here, had never liked the spectacle of it. But Crowley had always been able to get him to let his guard down, and that was the problem. That was always the problem.

Crowley is still down on the beach. Aziraphale had better get a move on if he doesn’t want Crowley to find him standing here, practically hyperventilating over...over what surely amounted to nothing at all.

In the house, Aziraphale takes a hot shower, dresses carefully in his usual waistcoat and bow-tie, and makes himself a quick breakfast of tea with scones and clotted cream. He’s calmer now and starting to worry about Crowley. Is he still down on the beach? Is he all right? Aziraphale remembered the way it had felt, falling beneath him, the water pushing them both into wet sand, Crowley’s body, so light against him, the fondness in his eyes.

Aziraphale gasps. Crowley had... _oh, no_. Aziraphale had been blinded by his own insecurity; his mind, overwhelmed, had defaulted to its usual restraint. He shouldn’t have left him there, should have stayed, should have asked him if perhaps they might talk, sort this all out, what it had meant. He stands, placing his used dishes in the sink, and walks over to the glass windows. Crowley isn’t there on the beach anymore. Aziraphale wrenches his hands together. Ought he to go and look for him?

But the door bangs open, and Crowley lopes through, dry and dressed, complete with boots and dark glasses. Aziraphale sighs in relief.

“There you are!” Aziraphale calls.

“Here I am, angel.” Crowley stops at the entrance to the solarium, where Aziraphale is stationed by the plate glass. It’s very much Crowley’s space. “What are you up to today, then?” he asks. He sounds as if nothing is wrong. And Aziraphale isn’t sure what he’d expected anyway. That Crowley would go to pieces over Aziraphale’s mistake? Certainly not. He’s not sure how to fix this, how to get another chance when his first attempt had been so thoroughly rejected, when his unexpected second chance had caused him to shut down entirely.

“I think I’ll go into the village,” he says. His voice sounds a little shaky, but perhaps Crowley won’t notice. Crowley walks into the room, but not toward Aziraphale. He leans down to examine a new little pothos plant. Aziraphale hears him hissing at it. “I’ll...let you get on with it then. Oh, but Crowley?”

“What?”

“I thought...perhaps we might have dinner in London tonight. The Ritz? If you like, that is. I think we ought to...there are some things I rather think we need to discuss.”

“Discuss,” Crowley repeats. Aziraphale presses his lips together, forcing a nervous smile. Yes, he will just go and collect himself, and then, over dinner and a nice bottle of red, they can do this. Whatever the outcome, it will be good to have it sorted. As Aziraphale leaves the house, he repeats it to himself over and over until he almost believes it.

* * *

With Aziraphale out of the house, Crowley shouts at the pothos plant until it grows spitefully, out of frustration. The damned thing is too big now, and he’s tired himself out pretty thoroughly. He tries being a snake, tries slithering around the solarium to scratch his belly on the soft carpet in the center of the room, but it’s still gray outside, so he gets cold too easily that way. Even so, he wants to stay a snake, to make himself small and curl up in one of the pots until Aziraphale forgets about him entirely.

 _Some things I think we need to discuss_. But he didn’t want to _discuss_ them in their home. What, did he think Crowley would make things difficult if they were alone? That he’d rage and shout? (Did he imagine simply being in public would stop him?)

Crowley had never been so happy in his life these few months, this morning. All of it absolute bliss. And now Aziraphale is off in the village to be away from him. He couldn’t have been more obvious; he doesn’t want to be in this house with Crowley at all. Not anymore.

Nothing Crowley can think of to do feels good at all. So he tries it, being small, curling up next to the pothos plant he’s made this morning’s target. He burrows in the dirt to keep warm and falls asleep.

* * *

Aziraphale returns to the house around tea time. He’s grown calmer, more relaxed. The chances are good, he thinks, that Crowley will at least hear him out. It’s growing dark and there aren’t any lights on in the house, though the Bentley is still in the drive.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale calls, entering. “Are you ready for the trip to London?”

Nothing. Aziraphale glances into the solarium, the kitchen, the bathrooms, all the rooms upstairs, even Crowley’s bedroom, which he’d normally never enter without permission. He calls for him. Frantic, he tries to concentrate, tries to feel if the demon is nearby. If Crowley had always been able to sense _him_ , it had to be possible. He tries to stop his voice from growing more and more frantic. He races back down to the solarium, where the feel of the demon is strongest. His hands twist together of their own accord, one rumpling through his hair, and a strangled little cry escapes his lips.

“Crowley, Crowley! Where are you?” _He can’t have gone. His car. He’d never leave the car. Unless someone came for him. Oh, and I never told him; he never knew…_ Aziraphale goes to the corners, looking behind the larger plant pots; he doesn’t feel any presences that don’t belong, but he doesn’t find Crowley, either, injured or well. Then there’s a rustle from the pothos pot, and Aziraphale understands. At once he’s there, reaching into the pot, lifting out the tiny snake. Crowley hisses as he slithers over Aziraphale’s hand, resisting his touch by growing larger and heavier before transforming until Crowley is standing in front of him in his usual form.

“I couldn’t find you,” Aziraphale whispers, unsteady in his relief. “Oh, Crowley. I...I couldn’t _find_ you. I thought you’d gone. I thought…”

Crowley’s face is drawn tight. He glares at Aziraphale. Aziraphale swallows uncomfortably, working against a dry mouth.

“Did you still want to go up to London?” Aziraphale says. “I’ve got us a reservation.”

But Crowley is so still. His face draws tighter, into something like a sneer.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “whatever is the matter, my dear fellow?”

Crowley scoffs. “You’re leaving. I’ll drive you up to London, and you’ll tell me you want to stay there. Go back to your bookshop. And I will, and of course you can. It’s just… Aziraphale, I don’t know if you… Look, you may not want to hear this, but I don’t want that. I want _this_. I want _you_. You probably know that, after this morning, probably got some sense. And I know, look, it’s all right if you don’t feel like that anymore. Or if you never...never actually did. Only I remember after the last time we were at the Ritz. I remember, and I’ve tried not to because there was _so much alcohol_ —”

“Crowley, stop!”

“Sorry, angel.”

“No, don’t _apologize_. Oh, you dear, sweet thing. Crowley, listen. Would you...would you kiss me again? Or maybe I ought to kiss you? To show you how I feel. If you’d like. I could—”

Crowley steps forward, takes the sides of Aziraphale’s face gently in between his hands. He studies him. “Do you mean it, angel?”

“If you do.”

Crowley sighs, the sound turning into a low whine as he surges forward and Aziraphale cranes his neck up to meet him. Their lips come together, opening into a kiss that’s sweeter and somehow more yearning than both its predecessors. _It’s because we know now,_ Aziraphale thinks. And he laughs then because the idea that there had ever been any doubt is entirely too much.

“I love you,” he breathes. “We’re very stupid, aren’t we?” Crowley’s arms wrap around him hard, and he laughs too.

“Yeah, but I love you, too, you bloody idiot. Still fancy that dinner at the Ritz?”

“Oh, yes, but I think they might hold our table for us a little longer,” Aziraphale says, and kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi and follow me on tumblr [@leilakalomi](https://leilakalomi.tumblr.com).


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